When we went to the cottage, my father used to sit by the lake and just be present. He’d take in the wind and the water, letting them speak to him. I think, as well, he would recall his childhood on the trapline, and the small lake through the trees where he used to swim and play. When I went to the trapline with him for the first time in 2018, I understood how the land gives us life as soon as we hit the water. My father, scanning the surroundings, remembering how his family used to live, looked ten years younger. And when we stepped onto the trapline, it felt like I’d come home, a feeling I’ve come to understand as blood memory. The land lives within me.
This notion of the land shows up in my book, The Barren Grounds, with messages about our relationship to it and how we should be treating it better. One of my favourite things about being an author is seeing how kids respond to those ideas. During school presentations these days, land acknowledgements are a pretty standard way to start, but lately, a few classrooms I’ve visited have written their own after reflecting on what the land means to them, coming up with something like: “We are grateful for the trees and rocks that we can build forts with; we are grateful for the fields that we have to play soccer, baseball, and tag on.” Simple but meaningful.
Land acknowledgements lead me to think of treaties because they are both linked to the land. Wherever you are, you’re likely on treaty land. The saying “We are all treaty people” means that we each have rights and responsibilities under these agreements, meant to benefit everybody—for example, treaties granted land to the crown for development. In exchange, they made promises to Indigenous people. Treaties are a contract between two parties, and in many cases, these obligations, such as hunting rights, have not been met. Treaties are meant to guide the relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people as well as the use of the land.
What does your feeling about treaties say about how we view the land, as well as each other? The starting point is self-reflection. When you’re out in nature, and your feet are on Mother Earth, what does that mean to you? The next time you’re standing by the lake, feeling the cool breeze against your skin and the water tickling your toes, clothed in calm, maybe just listen. How would you write your acknowledgement of the land and all that it provides? And what can you provide to it? Maybe it’s respect and love, and to make sure that it stays healthy and can continue to gift us with the stuff of life. Maybe all we can do is thank it and live better with one another.
Some wildlife species do best when left alone. Others need a helping hand, usually because their environment has changed too rapidly for them to keep up—thanks most often to extreme weather, predation, and human changes to their habitat. Even worse, some species, such as the Vancouver Island marmot, are endemic, or only found in specific spots, so extinction in that area means extinction from the planet. Check out eight current and past (and some controversial) programs helping Canadian wildlife thrive against their existential challenges.
Photo by Frank Fichtmueller/Shutterstock
Vancouver Island marmot
Facing a severe population decline, the Vancouver Island marmot faces extinction without dramatic intervention, according to biologists.
Photo courtesy Wildlife Preservation Canada
Taylor’s checkerspot butterflies
Down to just 15 wild butterflies remaining on Denman Island in 2005, the Taylor’s Checkerspot butterfly is beginning to make a tremendous comeback.
Photo by reptiles4all/Shutterstock
Western painted turtle
This turtle faces many threats including development, water pollution, erosion, and infilling. They are killed by cars, captured, or even poached for food.
Photo courtesy Pourya Sardari and Wildlife Preservation Canada
Oregon spotted frog
The Oregon spotted frog is Canada’s most imperiled amphibian. Conservation breeding and reintroduction are necessary to bring this species back from the brink.
Photo courtesy Mike Kent and Wildlife Preservation Canada
Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake
An important component of our ecosystems, the massasauga is a relatively small, thick-bodied rattlesnake. As Ontario’s only remaining venomous reptile, the massasauga rattlesnake has faced widespread persecution, despite the fact that it poses little threat to public safety.
Photo by FotoRequest/Shutterstock
Wild turkey
Reintroduction efforts have successfully brought the eastern wild turkey back to southwestern Ontario.
Photo by Peter Kolejak/Shutterstock
American elk
Elk were extirpated from the province in the late 1800s due to pressures from human settlement, excessive agriculture, and shifts in climate. They have been successfully reintroduced to Ontario from populations in Alberta.
Photo courtesy C.Nisbet and Wildlife Preservation Canada
Eastern loggerhead shrike
Shrikes require short grassland habitat to hunt and raise their young, and this is unfortunately one of the most imperiled ecosystems in Canada, putting the shrike and other grassland birds in danger.
Vancouver Island marmot Controversy rating: low
The Vancouver Island marmot is critically endangered and only found on Vancouver Island in subalpine and alpine meadows, usually 1,000 metres above sea level with their family groups. It is one of the largest members of the squirrel family, and is about the size of a house cat. During the summer, the marmot’s favourite activity is lounging on a rock in the sun. They build colonies that range in size and purpose—from small burrows for a quick escape from predators, and larger burrows for hibernation.
Threats There are many obstacles facing its survival, including predators (wolves, cougars, and golden eagles), extreme weather in alpine and subalpine meadows, and avalanches that crush the marmot’s colonies (yikes!).
Reintroduction plan In 2003, the Marmot Recovery Foundation started working on a captive breeding program. “Releasing species born in captivity back to the wild means the best chance of survival,” says Adam Taylor, Executive Director of the Marmot Recovery Foundation of Wildlife Preservation Canada (WPC). Captive breeding and release, feeding programs, and habitat restoration are the best protection strategies. WPC and partner facilities build artificial habitats, which helps marmots adapt back to the wild and go about their natural behaviours including nesting, digging, gnawing, and watching for predators. Maintaining the use of these will help marmots build colonies for hibernation and preservation against predators.
What’s the upshot? Reintroduction efforts have been “successful and relatively non-controversial,” says Taylor. “There is a severe population decline and biologists agree that without dramatic intervention, the species will go extinct,” he says. Some biologists are concerned that the population is too small, and that captive populations won’t be able to live in the wild again. “It’s tricky because we want to keep the marmots alive, healthy, and breeding,” says Taylor. “At one point, caring for one marmot was caring for 10 percent of the captive population.”
Despite the challenges, the program continues to be successful. “There were less than 30 marmots and now the population has risen to 250. We have been able to reestablish a fairly large wild population. We had five colonies in 2003, which has now grown to 25 natural colonies,” says Taylor.
Taylor’s checkerspot butterflies Controversy rating: high
Threats Agricultural and urban development, invasive trees and plants, fire suppression, and drought are all threats to this butterfly, says Andrea Gielens, MSc, RPBio, Wildlife Biologist with WPC. Historically, meadow areas would face small, regular, and localized fires, leading to a steady supply of regrowth in the early stages of forest regeneration. The butterflies seek open meadows when their current one regrows into a forest. “This species would normally live in a habitat that’s regularly cleared by fire. Without this process, the meadows regrow and succeed back into the forest, leaving the butterflies to find another open meadow,” says Gielens.
Reintroduction plan To reintroduce this species, biologists focus on breeding larva, raising them into adult butterflies, and then using the butterflies to produce the next generation of larva. WPC only takes minimal larva from the wild population for the captive breeding program. “New generations are released into the wild, after larvae grow into full butterflies,” says Gielens.
What’s the upshot? Reintroduction efforts are controversial. Forest fires are necessary for this species’ habitat, but the public still remains concerned about urban development and tree removal. “Part of our job is education. We want to highlight the benefit of tree removal for this species’ survival,” says Gielens. “We must maintain the natural ecosystem’s balance and the natural landscape,” says Gielens.
It is important to preserve this butterfly because they are a “historical species on the landscape,” according to Gielens. “They do not migrate, like Monarchs, but live in one area for their entire lives,” she says. To date, WPC’s conservation program has produced 3,364 Taylor’s checkerspot caterpillars and butterflies for release back into the wild.
Western painted turtle Controversy rating: low
The Western painted turtle is the only native turtle species to British Columbia. It can live up to 50-years-old and is the largest painted turtle subspecies, with a shell reaching 25 cm in length.
They live in the shallow waters of lakes, marshes, slow-moving streams, and ponds. Female turtles sometimes lay their eggs on beaches in loose, warm, and well-drained soils.
Threats This turtle faces many threats including development, water pollution, erosion, and infilling. They are killed by cars, captured, or even poached for food. Non-human threats include raccoons, skunks, coyotes, parasites, and diseases.
Reintroduction plan WPC is working to educate the public on this species’ needs. “Since turtles nest in the night, it is important for people to not disrupt them,” says Gielens. People should know that, “taking turtles as pets is illegal and can harm a population for decades because taking a female turtle could risk removing hundreds of eggs. Every turtle is important for the growth of the population,” she says.
What’s the upshot? Education has been one of the most effective tools. Once people know more about the challenges facing turtles they are more willing to take action and protect the species. For example, pet owners, who understand how they are affecting the species, are less likely to let their dogs off leash. “Being able to rely on the public reduces individual damage, creates awareness in the community, and makes it a lot easier to preserve this species,” she says.
Not only is the Western painted turtle the only native turtle species to British Columbia, these turtles are especially important for nutrient cycling because they eat dead fish and plants, according to WPC.
The Oregon spotted frog only lives in the floodplain wetlands, side channels, and swamps, wetland grasses, and bushes of British Columbia’s Lower Fraser Valley. It’s an excellent swimmer and great at hide-and-seek.
Threats Loss of habitat due to development, agriculture land conversion, and resource extraction have threatened this frog species. They also face challenges with invasive species and pollution.
Reintroduction plan Captive breeding is the most effective tool for protecting these frogs. WPC uses “headstarting,” and cares for young frogs until they are grown. They also use conservation breeding by raising frogs in controlled environments, such as zoos. Furthermore, there are efforts to create dikes and water control structures, to maintain what is left of their habitat. “We need to find a way to make two systems work together,” says Gielens. For example, humans “must ensure that when maintaining and cleaning drainage ditches, they are doing so in a way that benefits humans and frogs,” says Gielens.
What’s the upshot? Efforts continue to develop in order to preserve this species. With only a few hundred Oregon spotted frogs left, it is critical for conservation action to continue.
WPC’s conservation breeding program has pioneered breeding techniques that are now producing a record number of young for release each year. Without the thousands of tadpoles and froglets that WPC has reintroduced back to the wild since 2010, this species would be that much closer to extinction in Canada.
Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake Controversy rating: high
The Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake is Ontario’s only remaining venomous snake, and poses a very small threat to the public. It’s “the medicine keeper” of the land, according to First Nations’ traditions, and cannot be confused with other snakes because of its rattle that has a distinct high-pitched buzzing noise. The snake is shy and avoids humans. They live in meadows, peat lands, shoreline habitats, wetlands, bedrock barrens, and coniferous forests. They often hang out by the water (they are generally found within 50 km of the Great Lakes) and thrive in sunny open patches of land.
Threats This snake faces many threats including habitat loss, being hit by cars, intentional killing, and illegal collection for pet trade.
Reintroduction plan Reintroduction for snakes is fairly new, but necessary, says Jonathan D. Choquette, Lead Biologist at the Ojibway Prairie Reptile Recovery at the WPC. The reintroduction efforts were first introduced in 2006, where a group of snakes were rescued from a development site. No snakes survived the winter trial, leading to a further population decline.
What’s the upshot? Choquette and his team are delving into understanding why the first winter trial failed, and will integrate their findings in the long-term reintroduction program. New efforts include, “mapping suitable winter hibernation habitats, designing a novel artificial hibernation feature, testing these with a surrogate species, for the the first time last fall, artificially hibernating Massasauga at planned reintroduction at Ojibway Prairie,” says Choquette.
This snake is important for our ecosystems, but has very small populations of only one to three dozen adults in the Carolinian Region.
Wild Turkey Controversy rating: low
The eastern wild turkey spends its days foraging for leaf litter, chasing bugs, and milling for seeds and is a great flyer (in short distances).This species is important to Ontario ecosystems and is native to southern Ontario forests. Prior to 1909, the wild turkey lived north of Lake Simcoe and eastward between Toronto and Trenton. It was extirpated—extinct in a local area but present in other locations—from Ontario for 80 years. Reintroduction efforts have successfully brought the eastern wild turkey back to southwestern Ontario.
Threats “The eastern wild turkey was extirpated from Ontario by the early 1900’s due to unregulated harvest and rapid loss of forest habitat for agriculture within their historic range,” according to Patrick Hubert, Senior Wildlife Biologist–Policy Advisor with the Ministry of Northern Development, Mines, Natural Resources & Forestry. These threats led to the emergence of wildlife management. “This set the stage for successful eastern wild turkey restoration in Ontario,” says Hubert.
Reintroduction plan Reintroduction began in the 1980’s, in collaboration between the ministry and stakeholders like Ontario Federation of Anglers and Hunters and Federation of Ontario Naturalists. The American government and the National Wild Turkey Federation from the United States also supported the project. Restoration of the eastern wild turkey to the province was supported for the ecological, social and economic benefits.
What’s the upshot? Reintroduction efforts have been successful. These efforts led to 4,400 turkeys being released to over 275 sites. The turkey population grew to 70,000 in 2007.“From an ecological perspective, the re-introduction was necessary,” says Hubert. “The wild turkey is an important prey species for predators like coyote, red fox, and bobcat (where their ranges overlap). The role of the wild turkey in renewing forest understory has been discussed and debated, but since the eastern wild turkey is well adapted to deciduous forest we can assume there are mutual benefits for turkeys and other species in this ecosystem,” he says.
The American Elk Controversy rating: medium
The American elk is the largest member of the deer family and is only one of four members who lives in Ontario. They are social creatures and are rarely seen alone. They can live in many different areas, and thrive in open country, parks, and forest regions.
Threats According to Biologist Bruce Ranta, “they were extirpated from the province in the late 1800s due to pressures from human settlement, excessive agriculture, and shifts in climate.”
Reintroduction plan Ranta was part of the Ministry of Natural Resources team that started to reintroduce these elk in the late 1990’s. Elk were reintroduced in Lake of the Woods, Lake Huron North Shore, the Nipissing and French River area, and around Bancroft and North Hastings.
What’s the upshot? Despite successful efforts, there was controversy around reintroduction because of agricultural development and traffic concerns. “It actually may get the Ministry of Transportation to do some forward thinking that seems to be lacking in Ontario. We are lacking in comparison to some jurisdictions who use fencing, overpasses, and underpasses to facilitate the movement of animals across natural barriers,” says Ranta.
There are many reasons why elk are crucial to Ontario wildlife populations, but Ranta emphasizes that “elk are important for enhancing biodiversity.” They also support the hunting and viewing industries, and provide economic benefits through tourism.
Eastern Loggerhead Shrike
Controversy rating: medium
The Eastern Loggerhead Shrike is one of the most imperilled birds in Canada, with a small Ontario population of 24 breeding partners last year. They live in small pockets of grassland in Ontario, Quebec, and Manitoba, the persistence of habitat loss has restricted its areas. In Ontario, you can only find the shrike near the greater Toronto area, in the plains of Carden and Napanee.
Threats Since this songbird thrives in grasslands, its main threats are residential and agricultural developers, and solar farms (because solar panels can look like a smooth body of water, resulting in a collision when the shrike attempts to land. This is known as the “lake effect.”). Predators include black-billed magpies, crows, bull snakes, feral cats, and prairie long-tailed weasels. Motor vehicles also do a number on the birds, which perch on fences and utility lines, and sometimes collide with passing cars.
Reintroduction Plan Efforts to preserve this species of shrike started in 1991, in response to a rapidly declining population. Since 2003, WPC has been monitoring the existing eastern loggerhead shrike population and created a captive breeding program to bolster the existing wild population. “We are trying to keep them as wild as possible,” says Hazel Wheeler, Lead Biologist of Eastern Loggerhead Shrike Recovery program. Although they are in zoos, the shrikes are not an exhibition. “We don’t want them to be acclimated to humans,” she says. To maintain a natural-like environment, the team developed a set of standards to maintain similarity to its natural environment, including cages large enough for the birds to fly around in. The enclosures also include “tools”’ that the shrikes can use to mimic their wild habits: nicknamed “the butcher bird” for a reason, they “impale their prey from perches, or barbed wire, and use their talons to rip bite-sized pieces off their prey,” says Wheeler.
What’s the upshot? Reintroduction efforts continue, but not without controversy. Since the population in Ontario is so small, some have questioned the importance of the conservation efforts. “I find this question interesting: what can they do for us? Yes, you can make the argument that they are a predatory songbird who helps to maintain certain populations such as mice, which has an overall impact on biodiversity—but, I like to push back. Why does any animal need to have direct value to us? I would argue that shrikes have just as much right to exist as we do.” Wheeler continues, “if we lose a shrike, then we lose something else. Then we lose something else,” she says. “And the cycle just keeps continuing.”
Since 2003, WPC has been breeding and reintroducing loggerhead shrikes back to alvar grasslands in Ontario to bolster dwindling wild populations. The eastern loggerhead shrike is WPC’s longest running conservation breeding program, demonstrating the time and effort required to save a species from extinction.
The show-stopping cardinal flower counts on a cottage-country bird for pollination after summer sets in. From late July to mid-September, cardinal flowers stand out in deep crimson along the soggy banks of lakes and slow-moving rivers from New Brunswick to Ontario.
For anywhere from two to five weeks, up to several dozen individual hermaphroditic flowers bloom, a few at a time, along a single, unbranched, knee-high spire, starting from the bottom. Bearing first male, then female parts, each flower makes use of strategic timing to successfully reproduce.
A newly open flower produces yellow pollen for three to 10 days in a slender, male, brushy-tipped tube projecting from it. Afterwards, a thin, female style emerges from the centre of the tube to receive pollen from other flowers for another two to four days.
In Canada, only ruby-throated hummingbirds pollinate cardinal flowers. Their long, needly beaks reach the rich pools of nectar at the bottoms of the deep tubular beauties. They usually imbibe first at the middle of the floral spire where some female parts are showing and then hover upwards towards the male flowers, which hold the most nectar, at the top.
Brushed witha strip of pollen onto their foreheads, they then cross-pollinate female-stage blossoms in the middle of the next stem they visit.
Plants that are pollinated may produce up to 30 dry capsules, which split open in autumn to release thousands of dust-like seeds to the wind. However with most hummingbirds cruising south in late summer, many cardinal flowers never get fertilized.
Around mid-August, the plants also begin sprouting a ground-hugging cluster of leaves from their shallow roots. If the plant survives through the winter, it sends up a new flowering stem late the following spring.
After germinating from seed, a cardinal flower usually doesn’t raise a flowering stem until its second spring. The plant seldom lives more than a few years.
This article was originally published in the August 2022 issue of Cottage Life.
In November 2021, Canadian Minister of Environment and Climate Change Steven Guilbeault declared an emergency order that put an immediate halt on a residential development in Longueuil, Que., to protect the critical habitat of one of Canada’s threatened amphibian species—the western chorus frog.
While this was one of the few cases where the federal government applied the Species at Risk Act to cease development on private land, the Canadian Shield’s population of western chorus frog—in addition to many other closely related species—has declined over the past 60 years and continues to be an issue in Canada.
It was recently announced that the proposed route of Highway 413 in Ontario will impact the habitat of 11 species at risk, including the western chorus frog. The recent disappearance of this frog and its habitat—specially in portions of Ontario and Québec—has caused substantial concern and controversy.
As a behavioural ecologist specializing in acoustics and a reproductive endocrinologist who invented an injectable hormone mixture that induces frog breeding, we believe hope still exists. Habitat protection and restoration, advanced reproductive technologies and reintroduction procedures are all at our fingertips. This multifaceted approach could help slow further declines of chorus frogs and other amphibians.
Global and local threats
Despite its small size—measuring only two to three centimetres in length and often weighing less than two grams—the western chorus frog produces a loud, clear trill that is reminiscent of running a thumb across a plastic comb.
An adult female western chorus frog (Pseudacris triseriata). (Chris Callaghan), Author provided
Amphibians, including the western chorus frog and other frogs, toads and salamanders, play critical ecological roles in the environment. They are vital pieces in the local food chain. They are also economically important, as they provide free pest control in residential areas by consuming insect species, such as mosquitoes and blackflies, without the need of pesticides that are potentially harmful to wildlife.
Across the world, these amphibian species are rapidly disappearing due to habitat loss, disease, pollution, harvesting, invasive species and climate change. Over 40 per cent of species are threatened with extinction. Amphibian declines are part of the sixth mass extinction event on Earth, on a scale that is approaching the loss of dinosaurs.
Captive breeding can aid reintroduction of frogs
One strategy for conserving declining species is to collect individuals from the wild and breed them in laboratory or captive settings.
This allows the offspring to grow without being threatened by predators, contaminants or other disturbances. The healthy offspring can then be released to boost numbers in the natural environment.
Along with Marc Mazerolle’s team at Laval University, we implemented this strategy through a recent collaborative effort with the Montreal Biodome and Sépaq (Société des établissements de plein air du Québec), with the goal of increasing the number of healthy individuals that can be released into appropriate restored natural sites to the benefit of all.
Two years into the project, adult chorus frogs have been successfully bred in captivity. Hundreds of tadpoles have been reared to froglets and released in constructed wetlands for the species. Some of the introduced individuals survived their first winter and adult males could be heard calling for females this past spring. These methods can be applied to species around the world.
The critical role of awareness and conservation
The first step is to spread awareness to emphasize the importance of amphibians and the speed at which species are declining. There are several resources and citizen science projects dedicate to the protection of amphibians, such as Partners in Amphibian and Reptile Conservation and Amphibian Survival Alliance.
Protection of wetlands from destruction and pollution is one of the best ways to help. Wetlands are critical to the survival of amphibians. During the construction of housing developments and infrastructure—such as the proposed Highway 413—wetlands are often drained or filled in. Wetlands host many beautiful bird and plant species, not only amphibians, and they act as the earth’s filter to increase water quality.
Wetlands act as typical habitats for western chorus frogs and other amphibians. (Jeffrey P. Ethier), Author provided
Being careful while walking or driving near wetlands is another way to help on an individual level. Avoid disturbing breeding amphibians. Leave the tadpoles in the water. Observe and enjoy watching them grow legs and climb out of the water for the first time! Protecting the local ponds near your home can also contribute to this conservation.
You can also participate in public forums and let your community know that you support sustainable and responsible land use that keeps wetland habitats connected and protects critical areas for threatened species. Form volunteer groups to help protect frogs as they migrate over roads in the spring breeding season, as seen in other countries. We all have the power to make a positive difference in the protection of amphibians.
There are arguments to be made for the strawberry and raspberry; but in my own gustatory opinion—a bias derived from perhaps five million berries picked and processed—the tiny blueberry, Vaccinium angustifolium, is the queen of small fruit, the singer in the band. Its name alone is simplicity verging on poetry. And its shape is a teensy echo of the planet itself—which, as any spaceman can tell you, is mostly blue.
But it is on the palate, of course, that the little blue prodigy really comes to life. Biting into a mouthful of ripe blueberries is a tactile as well as a taste sensation, each berry releasing its inky, ambrosial load with a subtle pop, followed by a burst of muted tartness, then the inevitable rush of fruit sugar that evolves smartly onto the deeper taste buds, flushing sideways and backwards off the tongue and then down the hatch.
I prefer my berries fresh-picked, straight into the kisser in handfuls, right in the blueberry patch. But I’ll happily eat them from a bowl with milk; on Cheerios, Shreddies, Bran Flakes; stewed (is there anything in the realm of culinary satisfaction quite like the smile of the stewed-blueberry eater?); reduced to jam, jelly, syrup; with ice cream or yoghurt; in pies and puddings; on cheesecake or flan; in pancakes; in muffins. I have devoured them with gusto in chutney, and on salads in the form of blueberry vinegar.
The act of picking berries is, in its own right, a weirdly transcendent experience, a gateway both to wisdom and to idiocy. No emotion is quite comparable, for instance, to the hateful, delicious masochism of carrying on too long—say, into the fifth or sixth hour; the head aching from too much sun; the retinas imprinted with blue-dot psychedelia that will pursue you into the twitchy dreams of the wee hours; and the knees, the hips, the back, each by this time a manifest inkling of the galloping arthritis that will eventually catch up with you. And yet you keep on picking because there are still blueberries to be had, and as yet no one is showing clinical signs of having dropped dead.
Similarly, what can compare to the hopeful, agonizing self-delusion that, perhaps, if you don’t look at your basket or pail as you drop in the blueberries, or if you pick them into a cup and dump the cup as it fills, your basket will somehow be tricked into filling more quickly?
Or to the sensory vocabulary of the patch itself: the varying desiccation and swamp; the moss, rock, and lichen; the snapping pungency of the dry-wire twigs being consumed by the cook fire; or the redeeming cool of the lake.
Or farther north, the furrowed forest-cuts left by the pulp-and-timber workers (prime ground for blueberries); the ubiquitous black spruce; the Precambrian ravens and rock.
My great-grandmother, a 4½-ft. tigress, thought nothing of putting up 70 or 80 quarts in late July. She stewed them in their own juices—no added water—because this was how it was done. I’ve been told that she once emerged onto the cottage porch at Clear Lake, carrying a quart sealer of freshly stewed berries. As she held them up for the family’s inspection, declaring proudly that they contained “not one drop of water,” the bottom fell out of the jar, and the berries hit the porch floor.
As kids during the ’50s and early ’60s we picked in the mossy uplands near the Connell railway siding at Torrance, Ont., a few kilometres south of Bala. The horrormeister, David Cronenberg, shot the final scenes of his movie Naked Lunch on the site. All I could think about while watching the scenes was blueberries.
It might please Cronenberg that, during the mid-’50s at Connell siding, I found a heavy metallic something—military green in colour and about the size and shape of a cucumber. I showed it to my mother who, believing it to be an unexploded mortar shell, ordered me to lay it gently on the nearby moss. It may still be there.
The berries, like the prospects for the future, were good during the ’50s. On most trips we’d come home with at least a six-quart basket filled. Some days, my dad would pick a basketful himself. If there was a deficiency to his efforts, it was that he didn’t “pick clean,” and that the time he saved in not separating the stems and leaves from his pickings had to be made up later by my mother, who did it for him. My mother, I might add, once stared down a rattlesnake in the blueberry lands northwest of Gravenhurst, Ont.
I had no comparisons for the seemingly bountiful harvests of those early years, until 1991, when I moved with my family to Thunder Bay. Last summer, my wife and five-year-old and I picked 12 six-quart baskets in the timber clearings out along the Armstrong Highway north of the Lakehead. An acquaintance of mine and his family picked a hundred baskets in two days near Ignace, Ont. Bring on Cronenberg.
Our own picking left my favourite jeans permanently stained in the knees, my fingers a fragrant ghoulish purple. My wife, who was six months pregnant at the time, sat like Buddha amid the bushes, and slept like him on the back seat of the van as she felt the need.
The operative word for good berries in these parts is “lovely.” Exceptional berries are “as big as grapes.” It is pleasingly symmetrical that the grapes grown north of Superior—the lovingly tended few that make it to maturity—are the size of blueberries.
When the berries are particularly plentiful—20 or 30 to a clump—pickers speak of “milking” them from the bushes…as we never could in Muskoka.
A local friend picks with a blueberry rake, an ingenious comb-like contraption with a litre-sized reservoir that traps the berries while allowing the twigs, leaves, and pipsqueaks to fall through. You can buy such an implement, hand-made from sheet metal and soldier, for $35 at Lauri’s Hardware, a Finnish institution on Bay St. in Thunder Bay. Lauri himself told me that, at the current price of berries, a rake would pay for itself in one trip to the patch. I believed it, but didn’t buy one—perhaps because, for me, the pleasure of picking is only marginally connected to the number of basketfuls I bring home. Certainly, I have little patience for people who say they wouldn’t waste their time scrambling around in the wilderness—not to mention wasting gas on the highway—when they can buy a basket of berries for $20 (around here). You can buy all the elements in the human body for $13 from a chemical-supply catalogue. But it just ain’t the same.
In my own arcane world, the only reason for buying blueberries would be that you couldn’t get them any other way. And, of course, sometimes you can’t—even if you spend your summers in areas where they grow. Because sometimes they don’t grow. I have heard seasoned pickers expound ad tedium on the whys and wherefores of good and bad blueberry years. A good year starts with a warm spring, followed by a wet June and a sunny July. Or was it a dry June and a wet July? Too much rain kills ‘em dead. Or too much sun. A late frost can apparently do them in. And if there are no bees around, the plants don’t get pollinated.
Whatever else is known about their comings and goings, a few things are certain: blueberries will inhabit an area for several decades, then disappear and show up somewhere else. Sometimes they return to an area where they were once plentiful. Clearing a patch of forest will often bring berries. A forest fire, too, will bring them on. Blueberries are one of the first plants to regenerate in the scorched soil. They like their soil acidic.
If you don’t find berries where you hoped to, look somewhere else. Ask other pickers. A boom year at Huntsville or Parry Sound can be a bust at Sudbury or Connell siding. And remember that no matter what the prevailing conditions in an area, there will be microhabitats that experience nothing of the rain, drought, frost, bees, or fire that affect the territory at large.
As a rule, a relatively mild spring, followed by a good mix of rain and sun, tends to produce berries.
But aspiring pickers should not be confused, much less impressed, by any of this pseudo-scientific speculation. A good year is not one in which the rains or sun or frost come in textbook proportions at precisely the right time; or the berries are as big as grapes or grapefruits; or can be milked off the bushes by couch potatoes.
As much as any food on God’s menu, I love blueberries. But given a choice between the berries and the berry patch, I’ll always take the patch, with its implied freedoms, its wilderness and wildlife. In fact, at the risk of uttering a pomposity, I submit that a good year for blueberries is one in which you enjoy the patch as much as the berries—and perhaps have the good fortune to fill your baskets.
A really good year is one in which you really enjoy the patch…and get to eat blueberries on cereal and ice cream—and in pies and pancakes and muffins—for weeks if not months to come.
Originally published in the July/August 1994 issue of Cottage Life.
Summer may be a little less bright this year. Last week, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) moved the migratory monarch butterfly to its “red list” of threatened species. Now endangered, the bright orange butterfly’s population has been battling habitat loss and climate change for decades.
This “endangered” classification puts monarchs just two steps from extinction, renewing the already high alert for the butterfly’s wellbeing.
While the new report and label does not directly impact conservation law, it can inspire people to “take a look at monarchs—and other insects—and do more to conserve and protect them,” says Don Davis, who has been tagging, tracking, and observing monarch butterflies between Canada and Mexico since the 60s.
“Right now, this planet is in pretty rough shape. Species are on the decline,” says Davis, who personally has not seen many monarchs this year.“We had a cool, damp spring,” he explains.
Climate change, including droughts and extreme weather, is a huge factor, Davis says. Other threats, he notes, are “extensive” herbicide and pesticide use as well as land use changes, especially around Lake Erie, Lake Huron, and Lake Ontario, “which are important monarch migration paths.”
Couple that with modified plant species and degrading overwintering forests in Mexico, many factors are affecting the monarch’s ability to feed and reproduce peacefully.
“We’re planting more and more nonnative plants,” Davis says. The relationships between native plants and insects have developed over millennia and rapidly changing the ecosystem with nonnative flora is nearly impossible for native species to adapt to.
“Our ecosystems are changing very quickly, breaking down, and not working as effectively as they once did,” he says.
The IUCN designation implores Canada, Mexico, and the United States to revisit their individual (national and regional) species at risk lists. In 2016, the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada recommended classifying monarch butterflies endangered, but in the U.S. monarchs await inclusion on the respective list.
Every summer, millions of monarch butterflies paint the sky orange as they migrate from the tropical forests of Mexico, through the United States, to Canada to breed and feed. The 3,000-kilometre commute is impressive but risky for the fluttering insects. The migration opens them up to threats from across the continent, from severe storms and droughts, to illegal logging and various pesticides. “Hundreds of thousands die along the way,” Davis says. “It’s a precarious journey.”
It’s important to look at monarch populations in terms of their wintering population, Davis explains. To maintain monarch numbers, we need to have a population of about six hectares of forest cover. (Often, monarch butterfly numbers are assessed in terms of how much area they cover.) “We have a long way to go to stabilize that migration population,” he says.
In Canada, specifically in southern and eastern Ontario, expect to see monarchs migrating from mid-August to mid-September. Their key routes are around the Great Lakes where there are flowering plants and large clover fields.
If you’re in the Toronto area, at Tommy Thompson Park (or the Leslie Spit) you can find monarchs treating themselves to the goldenrod fields. “It’s an amazing phenomenon,” Davis says. “You have to be there when they cluster in the fall. It’s pretty spectacular to see.”
How should we help?
Positive change is possible, Davis says, “but a lot of work has to be done.”
To start, “don’t mow just to mow,” he says. Correct management of private lands, crown lands, and municipal lands play an important role in preserving butterfly and other insects’ habitat and food sources. Besides monarchs, he says, “I’m finding very few species of other butterflies this year,” mentioning a lack of red admirals, viceroys and swallowtails in eastern Ontario. He mentions a drop in bee sightings too.
Davis suggests and applauds homeowners and cottagers planting pollinator gardens that include goldenrod, milkweed—a monarch favourite—and other native flowering plants.
“When you benefit monarchs, you’re benefitting many other species,” he says.
He also suggests sharing with your kids, if you have them, and other people around you. “Study monarchs. Raise a few with your children,” he says. Exploring and reading are powerful ways to spark interest and raise awareness for butterflies. “I’ve always had an interest in nature,” says Davis, who grew up in rural Ontario around a family of farmers and developed an interest in nature at a young age.
Citizen science is vital and easy with apps like Journey North or iNaturalist. “Record sightings,” he says. “Teach others what you know. Donate to organizations that promote monarch conservation.” Davis is the chair of the U.S.-based Monarch Butterfly Fund.
“There’s lots that people can do to contribute to improving the state of our planet,” Davis says. “Whether we’ll turn things around or not, we simply don’t know. But we’re gonna give it a good try.”
During my lake association’s fireworks show over the last long weekend, I heard loons calling back and forth. Were they reacting to the noise of the fireworks?—Duke McGilliam
Yes. “Loons don’t like them,” says Doug Tozer of Birds Canada. “The calls they give are likely stress/alarm calls in response. They do the same thing to any other loud noise, like incoming float planes and big boats.” Loud noise affects their ability to hear properly, and it probably scares them. Okay, so fireworks aren’t good for loons (or other birds, or other wildlife). Obviously. But…just how bad are they?
When it comes to loons, “fireworks are not likely to cause a population level impact,” says Kathy Jones, also with Birds Canada and the volunteer manager for the Canadian Lakes Loon Survey. “But there are growing concerns about the individual pair impact.” For example, do fireworks frighten adult loons enough to make them abandon their chicks? “We don’t know,” admits Jones. “But one would think that the risk does exist, depending on how close the parents and chicks are to the fireworks.”
Now you’re probably feeling torn. You love a good fireworks display. But you also love loons. If your lake association’s on board, there are alternatives to traditional fireworks. Light shows, for example, “have the same brilliance but do not create noise or put pollutants and chemicals into the environment,” says Jones. You could also investigate “quiet fireworks.” Certain communities in Canada—Banff, Canmore, and Halifax, for example—have started using them. (Keep in mind, these fireworks aren’t silent—they’re just not nearly as loud.) Some U.S. organizations have started to use a series of drones outfitted with LED lights as a fireworks alternative.
One straightforward (and inexpensive) way a community—or an individual cottager—can reduce the impact of fireworks on wildlife is to limit how frequently they celebrate with fireworks. Ask yourself: “How often should fireworks be used at a lake?” says Jones. Every day of the holiday weekend? Only certain holiday weekends? Once a year, on Canada Day, ringing in Victoria Day and the New Year with only glow sticks and sparklers?
As with any situation where you’re weighing human interests against environmental impact, “careful thought should be taken with fireworks,” says Jones.
Got a question to Cottage Q&A? Send it to answers@cottagelife.com.
Present day wolverines, which emerged during the ice age, have been declining globally despite their many adaptions to live in challenging, rugged environments.
These large land-dwelling weasels evolved to scramble up trees and climb steep, snowy mountains. Wolverines’ snowshoe-like paws, heavy frost-resistant fur and powerful muscles let them thrive in some of the coldest places on Earth. Their sharp claws and strong jaws allow them to feast on carcasses and hunt species of all sizes from ground squirrels to elk.
Our 20 years of synthesized research about wolverines shows that the best ways to protect remaining wolverine populations are to reduce trapping, minimize predator control pressures, and connect the large blocks of intact habitat they need to survive.
Not as resilient as you might think
Wolverines are private, generally solitary, species. They are slow to reproduce and have an average of two cubs, or kits, every two to three years.
They are naturally low in number and defend territories as large as 500-1,000 square kilometres, or sometimes more. These traits make them vulnerable to human impacts around the world.
Since the Europeans colonized North America, fur trapping and landscape development shrank the wolverine range drastically. South of the wide Arctic range, wolverines can be found only in the western boreal forest and mountains. But they used to live from coast to coast and as far south as New Mexico.
All this human activity makes life better for wolverines’ competitors—coyotes. Where coyotes exploit developed landscapes, they come into conflict with wolverines, and in these fights, wolverines lose.
Piled on those problems is the impact of climate change on wolverine habitat. The cold, snowy refuges that wolverines have sought south of the Arctic are now thawing. Wolverines need snow to cache food, to raise their vulnerable kits safely and to keep lowland competitors away. The one-two punch of landscape change and climate change are making matters worse for wolverines.
Wolverines need large, connected blocks of intact habitat to survive. The only way to protect them in the long run is to help protect and connect their fragmented blocks of habitat.
Prime wolverine habitat near Revelstoke, B.C. in summer. Wolverines need large areas of intact, connected habitat to survive. (Mirjam Barrueto/WolverineWatch.org), Author provided
Creating more protected areas and managing human activity within and next to them will help. Protecting “climate refugia”—the last bastions of cold wolverine habitat—is an important priority. Landscape planning to connect mountain refuges across busy degraded valley bottoms is sorely needed, especially in southern Canada and the United States
Roads and industrial development cut up major sections of prime habitat. We can fight habitat fragmentation by making better decisions about road-building, including when to decommission roads built for resource extraction and mitigating the effects of traffic on wolverines and other wildlife. Habitat protection, connectivity, and restoration are critical for wolverines.
We also need transboundary co-ordination. We need to think across larger landscapes, especially regions that still support wolverines on both sides of a border—like between Canada and the United States or between Norway and Sweden.
No longer ignorant nor blissful
Globally, governments have insufficiently protected wolverines.
Otherwise, large-scale wolverine conservation has been on the back burner. In the U.S., a petition to list wolverines on the federal Endangered Species Act was thwarted. Canada lacks a federal management plan and British Columbia’s most recent wolverine plan is from 1989, while Alberta lists the species in the “data deficient” category.
A wolverine at a research station in southeastern British Columbia. We know a lot about wolverines. All we have to do is use the knowledge and act fast. (Mirjam Barrueto/WolverineWatch.org), Author provided
For years it seemed like not much was known about wolverines, and policymakers have rested on wolverines’ mystery to excuse inaction.
The truth is, science knows a lot about wolverines. Research from around the world clearly shows what we need to do.
In the spring of 2019, Cheryl Feldstein was stuck in traffic along Highway 16, leading into Jasper National Park in Alberta. A male elk was standing at the side of the road. Cars pulled over, helter-skelter, while tourists clamoured to get an up-close photo with the beast. Too up-close, in many cases. This was a scene she’d witnessed before. As the former executive director for a wildlife rehabilitation facility, Feldstein has worked alongside community partners and the media to educate the public on the dangers of close-up photography—both for the animal and the human. It was discouraging to see that so many hadn’t received the message.
One of the worst parts, she says, is knowing that often the people taking these photos love wildlife as much as she does. “I am sure we would be hard-pressed to find a single person doing this who wants to hurt an animal,” says Feldstein.
The education that Feldstein and others are doing is important now more than ever. A survey conducted by the Nature Conservancy of Canada at the beginning of 2021 showed that an increasing number of individuals, because of the COVID-19 pandemic, are spending more time outside, and they have an increased desire to preserve and connect with nature.
What’s the big deal?
Taking and sharing photos of wildlife is one way that people can forge that connection. And the fact that everyone has a cell phone at the ready changes the game. Now, wildlife photography isn’t just the purview of professionals. Natalie Robertson, a member of the North American Nature Photography Association Ethics Committee, has spent seven years taking pictures of animals in their habitat as a part-time professional photographer. She knows the risks associated with her work, but for many people, a split-second decision to snap a photo close to wildlife can have grim consequences. Any wild animal, no matter how docile it appears, can be unpredictable and can seriously harm a person.
“You should never underestimate the fear reaction in these animals,” says Hope Swinimer, a wildlife rehabilitator and the star of Hope for Wildlife on the Cottage Life channel. “They do not want to be near you. They will try to escape.” Some animals may display warning signs—birds will puff up their feathers, or an elk might stomp its hooves. “When an animal tries to make itself bigger, that’s often an indicator that it is fearful and stressed,” she adds. “You may want to see how they’re exhibiting the behaviour, but they want you to back off and leave.” And some people are finding out the hard way—in 2020, a woman in Yellowstone National Park was gored by a bison after she came within three metres of the animal to take its photo. “Some species will feel that their only choice is to fight, others may take off,” says Swinimer.“There’s very few instances where turning your back on a wild animal is a good thing.”
Robertson knows some people will go to extensive lengths to get a good photo. She’s heard of photographers baiting animals, and she’s witnessed people trampling vegetation to get a better shot. Most of the time, these interactions end up being far more deadly for the animals.
“By being in their territory, we pull them away from hunting, mating, or nesting,” says Swinimer. “It’s like if you were going through your work day, and the phone rang 30 times—you wouldn’t get your work done.” Aside from disrupting the tasks they need to do to survive, feeding wild animals or veering off trails into their habitat can have additional consequences. “Think of a walk in the woods as entering a mini biosphere,” she says. “There’s thousands of living things. You could disrupt the food supply or step on a nest or an underground habitat without knowing it. Every bit of intrusion can have a negative impact on the health of that particular little environment.”
Even less overtly bad behaviour can cause problems. “You might walk past a fox with their babies, stop to take a few pictures, and think nothing of it,” says Swinimer, “but when you leave, that fox may move those pups to another location because it felt threatened in that spot.” That’s a lot of work, energy, and disruption to the foxes’ life. On the East Coast, snowy owls that arrive when winter starts are emaciated, tired, and dehydrated from their journey. By approaching the bird for a photo or to look at it, it will expel its last bit of energy to flee from you, which could be the difference between life and death for that bird. On rare occasions, animals may even leave their family unit out of fear. Harbour seals have been known to abandon their young after seeing a person approach a pup, says Swinimer. And that still may not be the worst-case scenario. Wildlife can suffer from something called “capture myopathy.” Stress or fear can cause an animal to not get enough oxygen, which forces it to use energy stored in its muscles. This leads to a build-up of lactic acid that can go into the bloodstream and cause death instantly, or even weeks after an interaction. “We have to remind ourselves that we’re really big, and these animals are fearful for their lives,” says Swinimer.
There’s another risk of frequently interacting with wildlife—habituation over time. By coming closer to humans, an animal may be injured or killed by off-leash dogs or hit by cars. Many habituated animals, such as bears that come too close to people, are euthanized in order to prevent dangerous interactions. “I do believe that certain wildlife are more capable of handling interaction,” says Swinimer. “I can walk by ducks, geese, and gulls, and I’m not stressing them. Some foxes are even used to people if they live around the city.” But what’s true for one animal may not be true for another: a city raccoon may react differently to you than a country raccoon. And even though you might be okay seeing them on your property, your neighbour may not be. That “never ends well for the wild animals,” says Swinimer.
Why are we so drawn to animals?
The reason we find wildlife so compelling may be subconscious. An article in the Journal of Outdoor Recreation and Tourism published in 2017 revealed that nature enthusiasts report having the most memorable experiences when they see large and rare species in close proximity in their natural environment. It’s an emotional pull that sometimes overrides common sense.
Beyond seeing animals in the wild, posting photos on social media has added another layer. In her research examining the psychology behind wildlife close-ups, Feldstein realized that people tend to take photos not just to connect with wildlife but to connect with each other. Her ideas correspond with findings published in Caitlin Evans’ Colorado State University PhD dissertation. Of 599 college students surveyed, a small portion were likely to post risky wildlife photos if their peers had liked similar pictures in the past.
Educating the public about the dangers of such photos still plays a big role in getting the point across. And it can be done succinctly—one of Yellowstone National Park’s slogans is “Give them room, use your zoom.”
But it’s not just ignorance, says Feldstein. People might see the dangers but still really want those photos. “Being close to wild animals, you get overwhelmed with emotions, and you’re in a state of wonderment. It is almost like you get the spark of a kid in you.”
Where do we go from here?
Feldstein believes that parks and other areas can leverage social reinforcement through signage and other materials—though she admits it’s tricky. They need to provide clear information encouraging best practices without shaming people. “You don’t want to directly tell people they’re being jerks,” says Feldstein. But at the same time, she says, you want them to think about the effects of their behaviour.
Sara Dubois, the chief scientific officer for the B.C. SPCA and a University of British Columbia adjunct professor in applied biology, agrees that beyond keeping a safe distance from wildlife, individuals can influence others on social media to only photograph using a zoom lens.
“The longer the lens, the more you can give an animal space,” says Natalie Roberston. Phone cameras these days are good enough that you can zoom in, especially if you rest it on something stationary. Dubois also encourages people to share information about the dangers of habituation and stick to portraying wild animals in their natural habitats.
“I do think it’s a combination. I think that people need social media feedback to tell them it’s wrong. But very few people will call out their friends and say: ‘Hey dude, that’s a bad idea,’ ” says Dubois. Some platforms, such as Instagram, are helping get the message out. “If a social media platform or a contest’s rules don’t let you upload the photo, maybe that’s a lesson learned.” (See “Social Media Takes a Stand,” below.)
Dubois also thinks that professional photographers and photo contests should emphasize the amount of space between themselves and the photo subject. “Often, it looks really close, but in fact, the image was taken with this type of lens or camera from this distance,” says Dubois. The B.C. SPCA’s photo contest also bans photographers from baiting animals, tracking them, or posing with them.
All of our experts agree that no photo is ever worth disrupting an animal or putting yourself in danger. “We, as photographers, whether professional or amateur, have the responsibility to respect wildlife,” says Robertson, “and we must put their welfare ahead of a photograph.”
Caroline Barlott is a freelance writer from Edmonton, Alta. Her work has appeared in publications such as Discover, Canadian Geographic, and Edify.
Social media takes a stand
Instagram began discouraging irresponsible wildlife photography in 2017 after World Animal Protection pointed out that there had been a 292 per cent increase in users posting wildlife selfies on the platform since 2014. Now, if someone searches for or clicks on a hashtag like #wildlifeselfie, a pop-up message in part says: “You are searching for a hashtag that may be associated with posts that encourage harmful behaviour to animals or the environment.” The platform also includes a page with more information about the importance of respecting nature and wild animals. World Animal Protection also has a “Wildlife Selfie Code” on their website, which helps direct people on when it’s safe to snap a photo.
Our property has become a favourite egg-laying destination for turtles. Unfortunately, the eggs are being dug up and devoured as a midnight snack by raccoons. Is there anything I can do to protect the eggs and increase their chances of survival?—Dan Bedard, Big Rideau Lake, Ont.
There sure is! You can build a nest protector. The folks at the Ontario Turtle Conservation Centre recommend a simple 2-by-2-foot frame covered in mesh and staked to the ground. (If your DIY skills are worse than zero, you can also buy one ready-made from the OTCC.) You’ll need to include escape holes for the hatchlings—roughly one by two inches on all four sides of the frame.
The key is using the right mesh—the OTCC recommends hardware cloth. It lets in the right amount of light. Too much shade, and the cold temperatures that result can make the eggs infertile, says Sue Carstairs, the OTCC’s executive and medical director. “And that would defeat the purpose of protecting the nest.”
The hardest part of protecting a turtle nest is “knowing if you’re protecting the right area,” says Carstairs. Mama-to-be turtles are very choosy about where to dig and will sometimes make test holes. A female may start to dig (very…slowly…) then give up after a while; find another spot, dig a little, give up again; find a third spot, dig, give up. Then—plot twist!—come back to that spot and keep digging. Make up your mind, lady.
“It could take a whole day of observation,” says Carstairs. And it won’t be exciting. (Someone should probably replace the expression, “It’s like watching grass grow” with, “It’s like watching a turtle dig a hole.”)
Once Mom lays her eggs, covers them, and leaves, you can install the nest protector. Monitor it over the next several weeks, and remove any vegetation that could block the exit holes
Turtle eggs—they’re laid in June—typically hatch around August. “You’ll know,” says Carstairs. “There will be a little hole in the dirt.” If the summer comes to an end and no turtles have emerged, don’t dig up the nest. “People think, ‘Something’s wrong, we must rescue them,’ ” says Carstairs. But that’s a mistake. (It’s also illegal.) Some species overwinter in the nest and don’t come out until spring; the timing of turtle hatching is variable, says Carstairs.
Regardless of when the babies enter the world, “it is legal to help them to the nearest water body,” says Carstairs. If Mother Turtle chose her nest correctly, that should be somewhere marshy, not a rushing river.
Place the hatchlings in a Tupperware container and carry them to the water. Your work is done. No, really, it’s done—no matter how badly you want to take these wee babies to a turtle rescue centre. That would be interfering. And it’s not necessary. “They have to be babies at some point,” says Carstairs. For more info on protecting turtle nests, and tips on how to make your property turtle-friendly, visit ontarioturtle.ca.
Got a question for Cottage Q&A? Send it to answers@cottagelife.com.
This article was originally published in the June/July 2022 issue of Cottage Life magazine.
